I know I haven't been blogging much and I promise that's going to change very soon, but I wanted to take this opportunity to ask for your help.
My friend Valerie has a little girl who is just about my son's age (ten), who is severely autistic. Morgan is a beautiful child who loves music and games, but cannot speak, feed herself, or use the bathroom. She is locked inside her own little world, unable to ask for what she needs.
We will be doing the Autism Walk on May 16th, and I'd like to ask for your support in either walking with us, or donating a few bucks to the cause.
Here is the link to donate or register with our team, Team Morgan: http://www.walknowforautism.org/Chicago/trancejen
Anything you can do to help would be much appreciated. Thank you, and I'll be back soon.
Current mood:amusedYou know, it's been so fucking long that I forgot how all this works.
You guys read and then send me a check, right?
I thought so.
So how's tricks?
Current mood:cheerfulI've been blogging for about, hell, what, five years now - something like that - on my other blog, my "real" blog, which used to be over at Diaryland.com and is now located at PointlessBanter.net. Over the years I've met quite a few people, some of with whom I've become quite close, and very year I head up north to Green Bay to meet up with a bunch of them for a weekend of fun and drinking and debauchery.
I know them strictly from the internet. Every year some new people come, and this year we're about thirty people strong. This year we're all staying at the same little Irish inn, a place I love, and we have several outings planned - a sleigh ride, a trip to a karaoke bar, a winery tour, a fancy dinner, a mass takeover of a dance club, and other get-togethers.
My mother thinks that this is completely insane, and that one day a psychotic internet stalker is going to bash me over the head with an axe.
So far I've been lucky.
Last year I missed out on the festivities and was stuck in my hotel room with a raging case of the stomach flu. My boyfriend Bullshit, who'd come along for the ride, hung out with my friends, and thankfully enjoyed himself thoroughly enough to come along again this year. I'm driving out tomorrow with a couple of friends, but Bullshit is on jury duty and is meeting me there Friday night.
Have you ever met anyone from the Intarweb? How did it go? Were you pleasantly (or not-so-pleasantly) surprised?
Spill your guts in the comments.
Happy Wednesday, and see you again Monday!
Current mood:animatedI just got back from the cardiologist and I feel dirty. Dirty I tell you.
If'n you didn't know, I fall down a lot. A whole lot. I fall down so much that I make most old people with that LifeLine thing look like pansy-ass little whiners. My heart slows to a creeping crawl and I just pass the fuck out. Nice, right? Me and the geriatrics, chilling on the checkered tile.
About a month ago, I had a heart monitor implanted in my chest. It's about the size of a cigarette lighter and looked a little something like this after surgery:
Pretty, right? Just like a sunset!
It also came with a twenty-thousand-dollar garage door opener that I'm supposed to press every time I pass out.
The information is then transmitted to the hospital, where some sort of grotty bsement gnomes write it all down in a little file and stow it away in a big steel cabinet.
This is all very exciting, I'm sure. TranceJen's heart! Wooee!!
Anyway, I have to back to get the fucking thing checked out in order to ensure that it doesn't rot, explode, grow green stuff, or expand, making one boob bigger than the other. Therefore I periodically have to trot over to my friendly neighborhood cardiologist, a nice young Indian guy who calls me Jenny-fahr and Looks At My Boobs.
Now he's a cardiologist. I fully expect him to be looking at my chesticular area when my shirt is off and I am undergoing an exam. That's all fine and fluffy. However, when my shirt is on and we're all finished exploring what makes me tick I think that he should be talking to my face, don't you? This is not the case.
Maybe he's so used to looking at chests all day that he just never stops.
Or maybe he's a perv.
Or maybe he's searching for some sort of abnormal pounding activity.
Or maybe he's a big pervy perv.
The thing is that I know when men are looking at my boobs, and he most certainly appears to be doing so.
Now, I'm not complaining. If the dude fixes my heart he can look at my boobs, my butt, hell, he can take out a little scope and look right inside my ear into my fucking brain (you thought I was going to say vagina, didn't you - NOPE), but I simply find it to be a little unprofessional that the guy is asking me about dizziness while scoping out the girls.
Maybe it's just me.
Maybe I should just take my slow-assed heart and move on.
What would YOU do?